The Accumulated Filth
by Jackie May
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles. Story 6 - The Company of Demons: Dan/Laurie/Walter post Karnak AU.
1. Introduction

The Accumulated Filth

Greetings friends. This is my thread of one-shots and drabbles written for Watchmen. There are a few things I want to explain here at the beginning.

I shall start with the general disclaimer that I do not own this property or these characters, nor am I in anyway attempting to sway readers into a particular line of thought or opinion. This is pure fandom, written for fun and enjoyment and is not intended to be taken overly seriously.

Second, the stories contained within this thread are not in any chronological order, nor do they necessarily take place within the same 'universe'. I will always specify if they are intended to take place within a certain 'world'. For example, if one of these is supposed to exist in the same universe as 'Who we are Beneath the Masks' and we are to assume that the events in that story have occurred or will occur, I will be sure to note this.

Third, although most of these will likely center around Nite Owl II and Rorschach, there may be entries about other characters in the Watchmen world.

Forth, for now this fic is rated teen. That may change depending on future entries. Also, I will be sure to warn as to the content of each entry. Some will contain slash, but less than half I'm sure, and I will always warn as to the slash level of a chapter. So if you don't like slash but have enjoyed my non-slash work please to not be afraid to watch this thread. Slash will always receive a warning.

And last I want to say that I have absolutely no idea how many of these there will be or how often I will update, but I do hope you enjoy them.

On with the show.

-Jackie


	2. MechaOwl

Story 1: Mecha-Owl

Genre: Friendship, Comedy, little bit of angst

Characters: Rorschach, Nite Owl II

Universe and time period: Comic-verse, Pre-Keene, Pre-Roche, sometime in the early 1970's

Warnings: none really. Some brotherly love but nothing more.

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Mecha-Owl

As he emerged from the subway tunnel, stepping with marked apprehension into the Owl's Nest, Rorschach's fears were confirmed. It was every bit as terrifying as he imagined it would be.

When Rorschach and his partner parted ways the previous morning, Daniel had asked if he could arrive an hour or two early for the next patrol, nervously mentioning something about a new gadget he was going to test, and that he wanted another person around.

"Just in case," was the answer he offered when Rorschach's posture gave away a hint of uneasiness.

Rorschach had a feeling he knew what it was Daniel wanted to test. He had caught glimpses of his friend tinkering with it when he arrived for patrol on many recent nights. He was perplexed and unnerved when Daniel would pull a large sheet over his creation the moment he was aware of his presence and try to blow off questions with an air of unconvincing casualness. Daniel was strangely reluctant to explain exactly what the gadget under the sheet was, something entirely uncharacteristic of a man who was usually so boyishly excited about his inventions. In most cases Rorschach was not overly concerned with the things his partner built, but the mysteriousness of this recent contraption sparked his interest.

It was not difficult for Rorschach to sneak into the nest in the bright hours of the morning when he knew Daniel would be fast asleep, recovering from another night of scouring New York City clean of its seemingly endless scum. With the same stealth he saved for the infiltration of underworld hideouts, Rorschach crept into his best and only friend's home and spied on his latest mechanical creation. He was entirely confounded and frightened by what he found beneath the heavy sheet. At first glance it appeared to be a large robot, easily ten feet tall, built of thick steal, and bearing some resemblance to an owl. Upon closer examination Rorschach discovered it to be hallow for the most part, and then as the evidence began to click ominously in to place, he discerned it to be some kind of mechanized suit.

Now, as he stepped into Daniel's workshop, fingers curled into tense fists and shoved into his pockets to hide his anxiety, Rorschach's suspicions were fully confirmed. The thing was standing in the center of the room with its chest opened up, looking in all ways like something out of an eerie science fiction novel, and Daniel was the young and impulsive mad scientist rushing busily about his new creation with irrepressible vigor.

"Rorschach!" Daniel whirled around, bright eyed, dressed in an oil stained white t-shirt and grungy Levis; a wide grin spread across his grease smudged face.

"Daniel…," Rorschach started warily.

"I'm so glad you're early! Check it out man, my latest invention! Mecha-Owl!" Daniel laughed heartily and gestured to the metal monstrosity with a wild flourish.

"Hurm…" was the only response Rorschach could conjure at this.

"Okay, I know you're skeptical! Heh, after all, nothing escapes your skepticism, but this has the potential to change everything!"

The exhilaration in Daniel's voice was only succeeding to further unnerve Rorschach, who stood rigidly planted a solid ten feet away from the fearful contraption.

"With this exoskeleton I'll be strong enough to tear apart a car or punch through walls without even breaking a sweat! Can you imagine? I'll be unstoppable!"

Rorschach still offered no audible reply, only shifted slightly, his nerves crackling like exposed wire beneath his skin.

Daniel was quiet for a brief span of seconds, waiting for his partner to say something, until he eventually gave up and continued without the slightest dent to his ego.

"Alright, I'm going to suit up and give this thing a go! I just want you to be my spotter, okay?"

Rorschach finally spoke, his sandpaper voice cracking in his dry throat.

"Spotter? What…what would you have me do if…" He trailed off.

"Don't worry Rorschach, it'll be fine. If I need your help, I'll tell you what to do." Daniel's smile was infectious, but Rorschach remained wary of the steel beast his only friend was about to crawl inside.

"Get ready for a new era of crime fighting!" Dan shouted boyishly as he climbed into the suit, full of lighthearted exuberance.

The masked vigilante watched in silence as Daniel secured his legs into the metal limbs of the contraption, and carefully situated his body within its core. He looked on anxiously as his partner pressed a button near the collar and a face plate shut down automatically over his head, leaving his eyes only visible through Plexiglas.

"Can you hear me, Rorschach?" Daniel's slightly static ridden voice was emitted from a speaker located somewhere on the steel frame. It sounded fearfully distant to Rorschach, reminding him of the way astronaut's voices sounded when they radioed back to earth.

"Yes. Can hear you Daniel."

"Alright! So far so good. I'm going to initiate control of the limbs now and attempt to walk. Keep in mind I've never done this before, so don't be surprised if I'm a little clumsy to start off," Daniel chuckled from within his creation.

There was a loud hiss and a sudden electric humming as robotic suit came to life around Daniel. In spite of being a solidly built man of six feet, Rorschach thought his partner looked tiny and frail inside the steel behemoth, encased within its synthetic skeleton. For a tense span of seconds there was no movement, only a low whirring sound, and something Rorschach though might be Daniel's breathing over the radio, and then it moved.

Rorschach stepped back reflexively, his posture switching visibly to defensive mode against his will. The thing lurched forward with far more speed than expected, paused, and then straightened. Daniel cackled victoriously, his voice amplified unnaturally through the speaker.

"It works! I can walk!"

Daniel moved towards Rorschach, each iron footfall deafeningly loud in the underground space. The masked vigilante continued to back away, his wiry body strung taut like that of a cornered ally cat as the massive thing that both was and was not Daniel lurched forward. "Can you believe this Rorschach!? I'm bullet proof in this thing!"

"Daniel…"

"Watch this!" Daniel cried jubilantly and lifted an arm to point a fist at a target mounted on the far wall of the workshop which had always served as a testing range for some of the Owlship's lighter artillery.

"OWL LASER CANNON!" Daniel shouted with boisterous enthusiasm as a panel slid open on the top surface of his forearm with a mechanical hiss, and a gun-like apparatus popped up and locked cleanly into place. There was a moment's pause as the Nite Owl steadied his aim on the target before he fired a blinding white-hot beam similar in technology to the small hand held version he carried, only many times louder, brighter, and more destructive. The cloth and sawdust target was incinerated in seconds.

Rorschach stood agape, grateful for the ink and latex hiding his wide horrified eyes. The Owlship had guns that could do that, but the Owlship was an aircraft. This thing was maneuvered directly by Daniel's movements. Daniel was at its heart, he was its mind, its soul, it was-

It _was_ Daniel.

_No. No, no, no. That's not Daniel. Freakish metal monster with Daniel inside. Not Daniel. _Rorschach's thoughts swirled feverishly.

"Rorschach! Did you see that!? I did that! Can you believe this?! What chance does crime stand now? They'll just surrender on site when they see me like this!" Daniel's triumphant words blurred together into incoherent babbling as Rorschach gazed up at his partner's face, searching for the familiar honest brown eyes beneath the Plexiglas plate. It was then that against all his better judgment and willpower, a thought, cold as January frost crept into the masked man's brain: _Now that he's like this, he won't need me anymore. _

And just as quickly as that fleeting feeling of insecurity arose, it was gone, for Daniel had turned, whirling around in a quick and sudden movement, attempting to break into a run, to test the agility of his new steel body, when something went horribly, dreadfully, wrong. As the mechanical torso twisted around the left arm came up quickly as a man's would if he were about to break into a run, but as it did something happened, something Rorschach could not discern from where he stood because he could not quite make out his partner's body within the beast. Something caused the thing to collapse forward instead of running, loosing its balance and stumbling noisily into the subway trench along the back wall.

Propelled by a sudden and almost primal instinct to rescue his partner, Rorschach bolted to the edge of the platform. Adrenaline surged hot under his skin as he heard a gasping cry rise from the sunken track bed.

"Daniel!" Rorschach leaped into the subway trench, landing with a splash into six inches of dark pooling groundwater.

"Arrrggh…R-Rorschach-" Daniel's voice was strained and hoarse, he was undoubtedly injured. From where Rorschach stood, scarcely two yards away, he could not make out any part of Daniel's flesh and bone body within the heap of metal which had fallen face down into the murky water, but he could hear pained muffled breathing mixed with grainy static.

"Daniel-"

"Don't come any closer! Just-" The thing moved too suddenly, as if over compensating for what was intended to be a much slighter movement. A gruesome cry of pain echoed in the tunnel as the steel beast heaved itself to its feet.

At the sound of his partner's wounded howl, Rorschach lost control entirely and rushed the abhorred creation on a single minded mission to somehow extract his partner from it. In a state of total panic, and without a moment's consideration of the sheer ridiculousness of his actions, he brandished the only weapon he carried: his grappling hook gun. Completely forgetting Daniel's earlier statement that he was 'bullet proof' inside the synthetic exoskeleton, Rorschach fired the gun at the chest panel of the metal suit in a frantic attempt to crack it open and free his friend. The grappling hook erupted forth with its characteristic puff of compressed carbon dioxide and found its target in a split second. The four pronged hook collided with the reinforced steal plate, eliciting a deafening ping, and ricocheting hopelessly off the surface as if it were a tiny dart.

Failure to crack the armor pushed Rorschach further into a panic. His partner, his one solitary friend, the only person alive that felt in some strange an unexplainable way like family, was hurt and trapped inside that horrifically unnatural iron creature, and Rorschach had no idea how to free him. He ran helplessly around the feet of the monster, halting every couple steps to scan its construction, to try to find a way in.

"D-Daniel! Can you hear me? Daniel," Rorschach pleaded, fear and anxiety far more prevalent in his voice than he would consider acceptable.

"Daniel! What should I do?! Tell me what to do!"

Rorschach continued circling the robotic feet, inkblot face focused desperately on the Plexiglas plate where he could not quite make out Daniel's face in the dim light. Each agonizing second with no reply from the mechanical behemoth drove him deeper into incoherent madness as he began to fear his partner had fallen unconscious, or worse.

"Please, tell me what to do! Don't know how to get you out! Don't know how to make it open; don't know about robots; don't know how you built this! Daniel! What should I do?! Da--"

A low chuckle emitted from the robot interrupted Rorschach's wild pleas, and he froze mid stride, every muscle abruptly seizing.

"Ror! Hey, Rorschach, its alright, man." Daniel's voice paused, unable to stifle another sniffling laugh. "Its okay, it's okay. Calm down. Just hold on a minute. "

Rorschach was still shaking, his heart still hammering against his ribs, and his breath still coming in quick puffs as the adrenaline gradually dissipated in his blood. He remained frozen in a stiff defensive posture as the monster slowly and very carefully knelt down on one knee before him. There was the sound of an electronic locking mechanism sliding open and a soft hiss as the chest plates slid aside and Daniel stumbled out onto the mucky track bed. He was breathing heavy, wincing, and clutching at his left arm, but there was an irrepressible grin spread innocently across his boyish features.

"Oh man, Rorschach. You should have seen yourself," Daniel snorted as he staggered through the shallow groundwater to where Rorschach stood. "I've never seen you so freaked out!"

With Daniel's face clear in his sight, very much alive and safe, Rorschach's panic was replaced with a surge of bitter embarrassment and he could feel himself flush beneath his latex face. It was not the first time that night he was grateful his features were hidden. The humiliation mixed with fury as Daniel laid a warm brotherly hand on his still trembling shoulder and chuckled again.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you like that." Dan paused, bit his lip, then burst into another fit of laughter. "God damn, I'm sorry man- Its just- the, the way you were all run'n around, you looked so little, and all panicked and--"

"Enough Daniel…"

Dan coughed. "Okay, okay." he lifted his good hand to his mouth to hold back another bout of hysteria.

"Not funny Daniel! You are hurt! Could have been killed! Should not have built that-that- THAT THING!"

Rorschach was furious now in the wake of his relief and subsequent humiliation. It was the truth Daniel was in danger, he had every right to act the way he did. Things could have been worse, much worse. "Thought it was ripping you apart, Thought for a moment that it might have killed you! Not funny Daniel! Not funny at all," Rorschach continued vehemently.

Daniel's expression softened and he replaced his hand on Rorschach's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"I'm sorry, Rorschach. You're right, I was a little too careless there, wasn't I?" Daniel looked over his shoulder at his creation. "The controls are touchy, it's a lot stronger then me. When I fired the cannon, it rattled me a little. My arm wasn't quite in the right place inside it anymore. When I turned to run it snapped it like a toothpick." He glanced down at his limp left arm. "The second I moved I realized it was a mistake, but it was too late. Pop!" Daniel grimaced at his own morbid description.

"Hurm…arm is broken?"

"Yeah." Daniel winced again and glanced over at his invention. "Ugh…Never again. Hey, can you help me back up onto the platform? I need to call a cab and get myself to the hospital. This needs to be set."

Rorschach nodded, and with an uncommon gentleness, he helped his friend back up onto the platform. He was still shaken, still embarrassed, and still very angry, but in spite of all these bitter emotions, he was mostly relieved. Relieved, and although he would never admit it to anyone, himself included, he was grateful. Grateful that in the end his partner still needed him after all.

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Author's Notes - Some fluff for starters. I would truly love to see Dan posing like something out of Power Rangers or Gundam in his 'Mecha-owl' suit. It's too bad he trashed the idea. The title was of course inspired by classic Japanese Mech genre stuff.


	3. Fade

Story 2: Fade

Genre: Angst (there really is no better way to put it.)

Characters: Rorschach with a bit of implied Dan Dreiberg

Universe and time period: Comic-verse, 1980, I imagine this set in the same universe as my other fanfics: "Who We are Beneath the Masks" and "The Price of Guilt" but there is really nothing to say it has to be.

Warnings: None, other than that this one is really sad.

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Fade

Rain falls softly on black asphalt in New York City, slicking the polluted surface until it shines. There is blood mixing with the rainwater, running slowly down the cracks in the pitted surface, but in the unforgiving darkness, illuminated only by cold blue street lamps and the florescent bulbs from nearby warehouses, the fluid looks black, not red. Ink.

The blood is flowing gently from the broken skull of a dead man. His head cracked when it hit the pavement; his brain hemorrhaged. He was nineteen years old. He was also a first time rapist. His mother will cry for weeks when she finds out he is dead. She will never know of the sin her son committed to bring his fate upon him, and she will go to her grave thinking her child was an innocent man. If the young rapist's killer knew this he would likely consider it all the better reason for murdering the man instead of leaving him for the police.

Kneeling over the corpse, ink watches ink for a long while before the killer stands. As he does he feels stress in his left knee; the bones are grinding there more than they should. He pauses briefly to massage the sore joint. The ally is silent other than the ghostly whisper of the rain, and he knows he is entirely alone. Were there even the vaguest sign of life he would not have dared touch his aching knee. He would have shrugged it off and left the scene straight-backed and impervious. But he is alone and it is past midnight now, making it the twenty first of March, 1980. So fitting this pain would bother him today.

His thoughts linger on this as he leaves the body in the rain. He does not often measure time, nor does he care that years cut deep lines around his mouth, or that they make his hallow eye sockets deepen, or his teeth fall out. That is not his face real face. His real face is beautiful and vacant. It means something different to everyone, and at the same time it means nothing at all. The years do not change this.

It is not only his knee that bothers him as he slinks silently through the fog, creeping like cats do when they move like liquid seeping into dark spaces. There is more than one old complaint gnawing at him tonight. The voice of another dead man echoes like a dull throbbing headache in his brain. He killed this one five years ago, and though every other cadaver since has been silent in the wake of its demise, this one alone speaks to him on occasion.

Four decades feel heavier than he imagined they could as he traces familiar paths through the city. He is almost mindless now, a wind-up man following a set course, one he has walked countless times. The ghost is nagging harder now, and he can no longer ignore it as he hangs a left towards the better end of town. His knee hurts enough now that he thinks in may be eliciting a visible limp. He straightens and steps hard on his left leg. He will offer up no weakness tonight, but even though he manages to hide every trace of the pain it makes his mind wander to dark places.

Four decades. _Will I see five?, _he wonders. The soreness in his knee tells him that the body he is borrowing will not meet demands in ten years. He allows himself a sigh that warms the latex covering his dry lips. On this day, marking his fortieth year in existence, he makes a wish for himself. He wishes that he will find a moment when he can step into the shadow with out complaint and leave the world with honor; that he will not fall victim to decay; that he will exit willfully when he is ready. The thought of death is all consuming yet strangely comforting in its certainty.

He turns the corner and steps onto a familiar street. The sidewalks here are clean. There are small trees every few feet, and the buildings are charming four story brownstones with decorative wrought iron doors. He halts before a particular house and stands with a sudden unease at the bottom of the stone stoop. There really is no reason he should haunt these steps again. He is bearing no important news, and he has nothing of value to offer the man that lives here. He looks down at himself and for the first time in years he is aware that he smells foul; that he reeks of blood and rottenness and human negligence. If he had a legitimate reason to be here he would not care that he is filthy; he would smash the lock and enter, but there is no real rationale to why he is at this door tonight, only the pain of four lamentable decades, an arthritic knee, and ghost that will not be silent.

It isn't enough. It never is, and although he has haunted this stoop so many nights before, it is only on this one that he is aware of how time slips by with every vigilant drop of rain when he turns from his brother's door and fades away into the fog.


	4. Clockwork Eden

Story 3: Clockwork Eden

Genre: philosophical science fiction

Characters: Jon Osterman, Walter Kovacs, and to a lesser degree Daniel Dreiberg and Laurie Juspeczyk

Universe and time period: Comic-verse, after all events in the graphic novel.

Warnings: None, some brotherly love but nothing I would consider slash.

Authors Notes: I would consider this AU, but all events in the GN are to have occurred prior to this story without any suggested alteration.

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Clockwork Eden

It is a strange thing that a world exists where a man kneels before his brother's silenced body, throws back his head in a gesture of primal despair, cries out for his God to give him a reason for the is horror, and just like that, his God appears before him.

They have all seen him before, the 'Father' as he asks to be called. It is as the statement carved into the quartz stairs of his temple reads:

_I am not God. Yes I have created you in my image, and yes I have created all that is alive and beautiful on this planet, but I am not God. Yes I have brought you my wisdom, and my language; and yes I have taught you how to live good and just lives, but still, I am not God. I was born from this universe as you were. We are all children of the stars and this glorious and seemingly infinite matter. I have brought you life here on this planet. I am your Father. I am not God._

But God and Father mean the same thing to Children who only understand that their entire existence came from this one being, this being who descends from on high and grants them gifts of new crops or assists in the building of their cities, moving mountains with only his faint smile and pure will. So it is no surprise that in their cultivated Eden, when sin is born for the first time, strange and cruel and apparently out of nowhere, the Children would turn to their Father for answers. Answers he no longer possesses the humanity to give.

***

Both bodies are in full rigor mortis when he arrives, stiff and vacant of life. The Father stands over them and his glowing white-hot eyes narrow, granting his face a look of something like concern. Perhaps it is. Perhaps his heart stirs, for he loves them. He loves all his Children, and this is not want he wished for them: this awful throw back to the world from which he came.

"What happened here?" he inquires evenly.

They rush to speak. He is confronted by a hoard of tear streaked faces and trembling lips. He is reminded of a nest of baby birds. They appear to him like helpless blind things, and he is the only one who can grant them vision. From their many sobbing accounts he is able to derive that the two men became angry with each other, and they fought. One man brandished a weapon, a tool used for harvesting crops, and killed the other man. Seeing the reactions of his fellow farmers, and feeling cornered and frightened, the killer turned the weapon on himself. A murder-suicide is what people would call it in the land of the Father's birth, but here there is no such thing as murder, nor suicide. In the one hundred years his Eden as existed, such things have never occurred.

"Why?!" the Children weep. "Why would our brother do this? Why would anyone? Why has this sadness come here?!"

The Father does not know the answer to this, nor do the families of the dead. They claim the young farmers sometimes did not agree, but the teachings have answers for how to solve disagreement, so why would they not seek proper answers?

The Children back away, full of fear and reverence, as the Father lifts the two bodies into the air and floats them towards his temple of glass and gears. They follow him until he stands tall on the immaculate stairs before the soaring semi-transparent scarlet doors, which are decorated, as all his palace is, with eerie ticking cogs. He turns to the crowd of confused and sorrowful faces and says to them:

"I will find you an answer. At all costs. Be patient, my beloved family."

***

He knows what he will ultimately do even though he has yet to do it. He knows the crime he will commit to acquire the answer his Children crave. In spite of this, he ruminates on the morality of what he is about to attempt. He still debates it, even though his decision is known to him.

He has never made a perfect copy, a Child with a brain already full of memories, every fiber exactly as it had been nearly two hundred years ago, but there is no other choice. The Father can only see logic now and there is no logic behind the crime in his Eden. To find this answer, he requires someone more flawed than himself.

The Father remembers blue eyes like cracked ice and face that looked as though it was literally carved by the atrocities of mortal men. A wretched creature who was a pure embodiment of human suffering, hatred, and rage, but also, in spite of this, not entirely evil or unreasonable. He will know the answer. He will know why mortals commit such grievous injustices against each other. He will know.

The Father walks the long sterile corridor to his creation chamber; the sacred space where he built the first of his Children, where the first green saplings were born to his Eden, and where the first animals stirred to life. He glides through symmetrical doors adorned with slowly rotating rings forming the symbol for hydrogen. They lock behind him and he feels a sort of resolute peace take hold of his being, the faint traces of almost negligible apprehension whisked entirely away. He is, in spite of everything he tells himself and his Children, a God within this space. For he does not believe that there is such an entity; and therefore he can become the closest thing to it the universe will ever know.

Sitting cross-legged in the center of the circular room he closes his shining eyes and rises from the smooth marble floor. The room looks like a strange hybrid of a clock interior and a cathedral, a round space rimmed with soaring pointed arches set with turning gears instead of crosses, all constructed of semi-transparent quartz and glass. The Father's azure form is reflected in every surface as he floats meditatively in his consecrated space.

There are glass pods beneath every arch, filled with the raw materials that living things are made from: oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and many other elements. The Father lifts his head and opens his burning star-like eyes. There was a time when creating life was a challenge even for him, but now all it takes is a thought. A sliver of time to assemble a new son or daughter; one turn of a watch gear and a new story is born. Yet on this desecrated night the Father assembles a man who has already broken beneath the weight of his own narrative, the first Child born unto his Eden who knows the meaning of suffering.

It is 1985. The Father is standing on an ice sheet. He lifts his hand. A man's body comes apart, molecule by molecule, within seconds.

It is over two centuries later, countless light years away, and the Father summons his raw materials from their crystal pods. He pulls them together, every atom accounted for, in precisely the reverse order that he recalls from the ice flats of 1985.

Sapphire light flashes as all the microscopic pieces blur into one, binding and pulling inward as if drawn together by some unseen magnet, and then, where seconds earlier there was but air, a man is standing.

He is still shivering, though the cold is long since gone. His eyes are shut tightly, his teeth clenched. He stands there for a span of seconds before lifting his head

"I SAID DO-" He stops. His intense eyes dart around the otherworldly room, his hands instinctively clutch at his stomach where moments earlier he felt a sudden surge of heat pushing outward, followed, almost instantly, by the same feeling in reverse.

"W-What…what have you, what have you done to me?" he gasps. His bloodshot eyes are suddenly wide and frantic.

"I have created you," The Father replies pragmatically.

"Created…me? No. No. Did not create me. No," He stammers, now stepping in circles, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His freshly constructed heart pounds furiously in his chest as his breathing quickens to near hyperventilation.

"I have," the Father replies.

"No! Brought me here…did not make me." The small ragged man glares back with eyes colder than the ice flats of 1985. "Why didn't you do it? I asked you to! I wanted you to end it!"

"I did."

"Not making sense Dr. Manhattan. If you did, why am I alive?!"

"I killed Rorschach in Antarctica on November second, 1985."

The red haired man standing before the Father only narrows his eyes in response.

"You think you are the man vaporized on that day, but what you really are is a perfect copy of that man. Your brain, your body, every atom in you has been assembled to match his, but the carbon I used to build you is not the carbon that built Rorschach. The calcium in your bones is not the same calcium. Do you understand? You may feel as though you were standing outside Veidt's Karnak only moments ago, that you are the man who stood before me that day, but in reality he has been dead for over two hundred years."

The man stands agape, his colorless complexion stricken with nothing short of horror.

"If my brain, all memories…if…everything is the same, than does that not make me him?"

"That is a question for philosophers not scientists. You are and you are not, but it is in my own best interests that you do believe yourself to be who you feel you are."

A red flush touches the weathered cheeks of the man and his cold eyes flare.

"Why have you done this to me? What sick game are you playing, Osterman?"

The Father's lips lift in something almost like a smile.

"Dr. Manhattan. Osterman. I have not been called those names in so long. I did not expect it to feel good to hear them."

"Tell me why you have _created _me," the man snarls.

"Because, Rorschach, I need to ask you a question."

"A question? Resurrected me for a _question? _Had better be good…" The reborn Rorschach growls coolly.

"We will discuss it tomorrow over breakfast. For now you will rest, and collect yourself."

"Don't want to re--"

"Yes you do. You like deny yourself what it is you truly want even when it is something as simple as rest. You are a puzzling life form Rorschach, but then again, that is why I summoned you, after all."

***

Sunlight pours in through a slim pointed arch window in small room with a disproportionately high ceiling. In the center of the room there is a narrow single bed with a frame constructed, like most of the minimal furnishings in the Father's clockwork palace, of solid quartz. The mattress, pillows, and sheets are pure sterile white, clean and immaculate as the prismatic walls and polished floor. The lone figure, curled tightly beneath the silken sheets, is the single stain upon the otherwise spotless space.

He feels the warmth of morning on his sore skin and squints in the glittering daylight. He blinks and drags his stiff body into a seated position. He is dressed in a smooth cream colored robe but he does not recall changing into it. He feels as though he was fighting the day before. He has bruises that hurt under pressure and his joints ache. He touches cheek, feeling the still present welt beneath his left eye. Everything is as it was. He wants to tell himself it doesn't make any sense, but in very cold and base terms it makes perfect sense. A flawless copy; welts and all.

He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. He wonders what he would like to be called. The first name that comes to mind feels somehow wrong. His inkblot face is gone, left behind in the snow two hundred years ago. It was a good death for Rorschach there outside Karnak, honorable and uncompromising. As he mulls over his identity the tall quartz doors slide open and the Father stands sedately at the threshold.

"Good morning, Rorschach."

The weary figure on the bed looks into the blazing white eyes momentarily before his gaze shifts down to his own thin sinewy hands tightly fisted into silken sheets.

"Uncertain if I am Rorschach anymore. Remember everything, but feel different somehow, like he has left me. Feel like…like I am Walter Kovacs now."

"I can call you that if you wish, and Walter Kovacs is possibly better suited to answering my question than Rorschach would be."

"Yes. Walter. Walter will do for now."

The Father nods and extends his hand serenely.

"Come," he says simply.

Walter hesitates but eventually swings his limbs over the edge of the bed and allows his bare toes to touch the cool reflective marble floor. He stands warily, and pulls the thin robe tightly around his otherwise naked body. He feels exposed and uncomfortable even though he knows that the blue entity before him is indifferent to human modesty.

"Need clothes," he says quietly.

The Father considers him for a brief moment.

"I have cleaned your clothes for you. They are in my chamber where you will join me and discuss my question."

Walter lets out a raspy sigh and reluctantly follows the azure man out into a long corridor, still clutching the robe closed in the front. As they proceed down the long hallway he considers his instincts, which tell him to attack his captor and flee, but he disregards the notion with little thought. He knows who he is dealing with, and even if he could escape he is uncertain he wants to see the world outside.

They arrive in a room almost identical to all the others, filled with tall columns and turning gears. In the center the is a rectangular table with two chairs. A typical American breakfast is set in front of one of the seats: coffee, toast, sliced fruit, and eggs. The Father gestures to the table.

"You will find your clothes on the chair. Sit, eat, and I will explain to you my problem."

Walter pulls out the chair and finds the neatly folded bundle of familiar clothes. They are cleaner than he can remember them ever being, but the familiar scuffs and tears are proof enough that the clothing is his. The Father seats himself across the table. Walter eyes him coolly, clutching the bundle to his chest. He considers requesting privacy in order to change, but he knows it will not be granted, so he walks around to stand behind the imposing blue man and quickly changes back into his own clothing. Some of the tension in his muscles unwinds once he is covered, and he takes his seat at the other side of the table, feeling slightly less vulnerable.

The food smells exactly as it should, and tastes undeniably good. Walter does not hesitate to eat. He has nothing to loose and no reason to bother being suspicious. As far as he is concerned, he shouldn't even be alive.

"Is it as you like?" the Father asks.

"It's fine," Walter replies through a mouthful of toast.

"Now, as for why I've summoned you."

"Yes, would like to know what your end game is, Osterman." The scruffy redhead lifts his coffee mug to his lips.

"I have discovered how to create life."

"Obviously."

"I have created hundreds of beings of which I refer to as my Children. I have created plants and animals to diversify their world and granted them the wisdom of the civilization from which I came. In the beginning I guided their lives almost entirely. However, as they grew to be a self-sustaining society, I stepped away and allowed them to breed and thrive on their own, and for a century they have existed harmoniously in my utopia, with only my occasional assistance."

"You must be so proud," Walter replies with a hint of icy sarcasm.

"I am. I love them. They are my greatest achievement as of this date."

"Heartwarming story, Osterman. So why sully your perfect world with my filth?"

"Because, the pollution has already occurred. Two days ago my Children witnessed murder for the first time. One of my sons murdered another over some perfectly solvable dispute, and proceeded to kill himself in the wake of his crime."

"Murder-suicide. Open and shut case."

"In your world, yes, but not here. My Children do not understand these grievous things, and I no longer possess the comprehension of such illogical actions."

Walter slips a slice of something akin to a peach into his mouth and chews slowly, considering the story. The Father eyes him intently.

"Want me to make sense of this for you?" Walter says after swallowing the fruit.

"Yes. I want you to tell me why it is that living things behave in such cruel ways, so that I can prevent this evil from contaminating my once virgin world any more than it already has."

Walter chuckles softly and reaches for another slice of fruit.

"These…Children…of yours. They are human?"

"Not exactly. They are humanoid in their appearance, mortal, and of equal intelligence. I based them on humans, but chose to give them slight variations."

"But no super powers like you have, just regular living things?"

"Yes. They are no more different from humans than a lion is from a tiger."

"Hurm. Really have drifted out of touch, Osterman."

"Explain." The god-like creature tilts his head slightly in an action almost mirroring curiosity.

"Experiment has more variables than you can control. Existence is essentially random and meaningless, Osterman. Every living thing with free will has a choice. Regardless of your best intentions some will ultimately choose evil. There are too many variables, too many reasons for a men to commit sin, too many for even you to oversee. Is the nature of free will."

"Human nature." The Father muses almost to himself. "Are you suggesting that all life is fundamentally evil?"

"No. It is not fundamentally anything. It is _chaos_." Walter pauses for a moment, gazing intently at his own reflection in his coffee. "The answer to your question is simple…why did this happen here? Because it was bound too. Paradise will always be lost. It is the nature of free will. Chaos."

The Father is silent for a long span of time, and his mind is not in the present. He making love to Janey Slater; he is in Vietnam seeing mothers weep over their dead sons, vaporized by his own hand; he is watching as the Comedian sets fire to a paper map, he is levitating before an angry crowd in 1977; he is on mars; he is kissing Laurie for the last time.

"The moment of chaos…like turning air into gold." He whispers reverently.

"Don't know if I would give humans that much credit." Walter mutters coolly.

"I could have prevented this if I controlled them entirely, but free will and natural evolution is what makes life unique and ultimately beautiful. The risk of failure is required for triumph to truly resonate. I am recalling now why it was I created my Children, why I gave them the ability to breed and die and be self sustaining. Beauty lies within the chaos of mortal life." The Father's voice is airy and distant. Walter feels as though his star like eyes are looking somewhere far beyond him, eons into the future perhaps.

"Thank you Walter. This is the second time I required a mortal to remind me why life is precious. I am grateful for your assistance."

Walter shifts uneasily in his seat, stark gaze focused on his weathered hands. They are hands created less than a day ago, but they bear the scars and deterioration of forty-five long and unforgiving years. He lifts his red rimmed eyes to meet the shining visage before him.

"What now?" he rasps.

"I will give my Children guidance, help them to find a path to peace and reason but I will not stay with them forever. I wish for them to live sovereign lives, free of deities."

"Not what I meant."

"I'm sorry. You are referring to what happens to you now?"

Walter gnaws his lower lip absently. "Yes. What will you do with me now? Answered your question. Am of no further use and do not belong here."

"I owe you something for your assistance though, do I not? What would you like, Walter. What would you have me do with you?" the quasi-deity asks evenly.

"I…don't…I don't know what I want."

"Would you like me to destroy you once more? As you initially wished?"

Walter flinches and looks away from the Father, his ginger eyebrows tightly knit.

"Was what I wanted, but…" His hands twist restlessly in his lap. "Feels cheap."

"Cheap?"

"You summon me here, get what you need from me, then throw me away again. Feels wrong…" Walter's heart is beating faster now, and he thinks somehow the thing across from him can hear it. His throat tightens. "I am human, Osterman…I am human."

"So you no longer wish to die? What would you have me do for you then ? I am grateful for your help. I will assist you. Just tell me what it is you desire."

Insecurity pools in Walter's belly as he digs his nails unconsciously into his forearms. "Can I just go home?"

"Home? Where would you consider home to be, Walter?"

His lips tremble as he meets the all-knowing gaze across from him.

"Dreiberg." the Father says in a voice just above a whisper. Walter feels his entire body tense up at the very utterance of the name and he tears his eyes away from the serene face to focus once again on his knotted hands.

"Is a good friend. Only one I can think of, but you would not let me go back there. I cannot be trusted to keep Veidt's secrets."

"This is true, but it seems that killing Rorschach did little to keep him silent regardless."

Walter looks back up quickly, his interest piqued.

"I returned to earth for a brief visit in 2060, shortly before starting my colony here. I was curious to see how my former home fared in the century following Veidt's monster. I did not make my presence known. There are countless books written about Rorschach and the other 'Watchmen', as literature likes to call us. You are the favorite, thanks to your journal and fascinating psychosis. Your writings were published in 1986. The journal ends up in the hands of the government after this, and is now on display at the Smithsonian. You successfully start a vast conspiracy against Veidt, however he is never proven guilty. He aids the police in dispelling rumors that you, Dreiberg, and Laurie are still alive after 1985. The three of you are formally pronounced dead in the summer of 1986 after remnants of Dreiberg's Owl Ship are found in the Atlantic."

Walter's eyes narrow slightly, and he is quiet for a long while, fixating on the reflection of his face in polished surface of the table.

"You know where it is I want to be… can you send me there? Will you let me return?"

"I can."

"Not worried I might bring about nuclear Armageddon?" Walter replies, his lip curling up into a wry half smile.

"Where I send you, Rorschach has already been pronounced dead, and his conspiracy theories are common knowledge. The damage is already done, Walter." The Father pauses. "To return to earth, the world that brought you all of your suffering, is this what you desire as payment for your service to me?"

"Is the only thing I can think of at the moment. If it does not work out…can end myself without your assistance." Walter closes his eyes and nods lightly on the final statement.

"As you wish." The Father stands, and he is tall and serene within his crystal palace of turning cogs. Walter staggers clumsily up from his seat and stands before him, fierce eyes locked on the tranquil azure face of the closest thing to God he will ever know.

"One last request, Walter." The Father extends his hand, producing a tiny ticking watch face made of the same crystal as everything in his world. "Please give this to Laurie." Walter hesitates before quickly plucking up the little gift and stuffing into his pocket.

"Still sentimental, Osterman?" he replies gruffly.

"It is a practical gift. I will not stop within her lifetime."

Walter gives a stiff nod and locks eyes with the Father one last time.

"Well…What are you waiting for?"

***

Deep golden sunlight glimmers from behind the dark silhouetted trees as the burning disk sinks down to meet an unfamiliar horizon. The breeze is fragrant with the scent of grass and trees. It is warm, yet the air possesses a tell-tale crispness, and he derives that it is early autumn.

Walter is laying on his back on a slanted hillside facing west by the looks of the setting sun. Behind him he hears a passing vehicle. With marked pain and stiffness he rolls over and drags himself to his feet, dusting off bits of grass and soil. He climbs the hill and finds himself standing before a highway, one that appears to go on for miles in either direction. The expanse is entirely unlike the tangled urban environment with which he is familiar. As far as he can see there is nothing but yellowing cornfields, trees, and a distant mountain range, its soaring peaks gilded with late day sun. It would be beautiful if it did not seem overwhelmingly open and desolate to he who is so accustomed to busy streets, noise, and people at every turn.

The only sign of human life he can see is a dark colored car, pulled over along side the highway about a hundred yards away with two figures busying themselves around it. Uncertain what else to do, he heads towards them.

***

"It'll be dark soon Dan. Think you'll get it running tonight?" A tall woman with flax colored shoulder length hair leans against the side of a broken down Chevy and lights a cigarette.

"Yeah, don't worry Laurie, just give me a few more minutes and we'll be out of here," Her husband Dan answers from where he stands bent under the hood, tinkering with car's the engine.

Laurie sighs and scans the horizon which is now burning faintly orange. She exhales a long wisp of pale smoke into the autumn breeze and turns to her partner. "I know I've said this before, but Daniel Dreiberg and Laurel Juspeczyk were formally pronounced dead last month…maybe we can stop running now."

Dan stands back and slams the hood shut. He absently runs an oil stained hand through his unruly dirty blond hair and scratches at his scruffy beard. "Yeah, but where should we go?"

"Somewhere. I don't know, might as well just throw a dart at a map. The answer would be as good as anything." Laurie replies with a shrug and her characteristic sarcastic laugh.

"I think that should do it. Lets see if she starts." Dan turns and reaches for the driver's side door.

"Uh-oh, Don't look now, Dan. The sun's down and here come the redneck crazies." Laurie mutters quickly and slides into the passenger seat.

"Wait!" an unsettlingly familiar raspy voice calls out.

Dan's hand freezes on the door handle, and very slowly he turns away from his car to face the approaching stranger. Inside, Laurie leans forward and peers through the windshield, squinting in the low sunlight. Her eyes grow wide as she scrambles out of the vehicle to better see the disturbingly familiar vagabond.

"Hello." Walter says slowly, lifting his tired bloodshot eyes to meet those of the two travelers. He's not surprised by Laurie's astonished and horrified expression. Dan's face is very much the same, only there is something else in his stunned brown eyes along side the terror and disbelief.

"Been traveling…come a long way, alone. Was wondering if," His voice catches in his throat.

Dan's lips move as if he is trying to speak but no words come out.

Walter coughs. "Wondering if I could…perhaps…join the two of you." He pauses, tearing his gaze away from their stunned faces momentarily. "if you would have me."

He looks back up at them, focusing on Dan, his eyes betraying him in their bleak desolation. He wishes more than ever that he had his mask.

"Is--is it really… How? No, there's no way, there--" Dan falters clumsily, but there is a desperate hint of hope in his voice as he takes one deliberate step forward.

Walter then reaches into his pocket and produces a small otherworldly timepiece.

"Have come a long way, Daniel."

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Author's notes: So I finally caved. I admit, being the kind of fan I am, that I feel a little guilty writing a 'fix the ending' fic. (Don't get me wrong, I love reading them! Just didn't know if I could bring myself to write one.)And I do still stand by the notion that Rorschach/Walter is dead at the end of the story, and that is how it should be...but... I could'nt help myself. I really wanted build a universe were Dan/Laurie/andWalter exist together, (yes...this might lead to some OT3. Sorry if that bugs people, I can't help it, I think they're cute.) and it felt better to me to write something that goes AU after everything in the canon story has happened than to write something that makes alterations to the what happens in the GN. I'm just weird about the events in the GN, I can't seem to bring myself to mess with them.


	5. Smashed

Story 4: Smashed

Genre: Comedy, Friendship

Characters: Rorschach and Nite Owl II

Universe and time period: Comic-verse, late 60's

Warnings: Written for kinkmeme. A little on the goofy side. Rated PGish. 'Bromancy' but no slash.

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The two of them were in perfect sync that night, matched blow for blow, felling one enemy after another with a kind of precision that would make it seem as though the opposition was simply offering itself up to them. It was moments like this that made Dan so aware of what a perfect team they were.

Dan's excitement rose as they weeded the gang down to but a few remaining players, the rest were sprawled piteously about their feet. In the distance Dan could hear sirens. The police would be there in minutes to clean up the mess. Another flawless win for the Nite Owl-Rorschach team. Dan's eyes flitted around the alley. Rorschach was bearing down on the last remaining gangster thug, a lean young man with an almost nervous quickness about him. Dan relaxed and waited, straightening his cowl and keeping an eye on the fallen criminals. Rorschach would be done with that kid in no time. He leaned back, casually waiting for his partner to finish with his foe when something entirely unexpected occurred.

The slim gangster ducked Rorschach's left jab with a swiftness that the masked man clearly had not anticipated. Riding the momentum of his evasion, the little thug slid to his knees, scooped up a crowbar from the slack hand of one of his unconscious allies, and popped back up onto his feet all in one sweeping fluid movement. Then, in an altogether ungentlemanly action that said nothing short of "Fuck you, I'm out of here", the brazen kid swung the heavy metal weapon low and brought it up, with all the force his lean body could muster, straight between Rorschach's legs.

Dan could not hold back an immediate reflexive cringe, and a small snort of laughter. He felt a wave of guilt for this, but he couldn't help it. Rorschach, _The Rorschach_, just got nailed in the balls. Hard. Stuff like this never happened.

The gangster kid, having squarely hit his mark, dropped the weapon and bolted. Dan knew he should take off after him. He knew that was what his partner expected from him, but given what had just happened Dan's attention was entirely on his friend.

Rorschach was leaning against the brick wall, and as Dan slowly approached him, trying his damnedest not to snicker at his partner's plight, he could see that he was shaking. This, coupled with the fact that he had not swallowed up the pain and tore down the alley after the thug was proof enough that he was hurting bad. The thought then occurred to Dan that there was a possibility his partner was actually damaged down there, and any trace of humor he had found in the situation evaporated.

"Rorschach. Buddy, are you alright?" Dan lifted a tentative hand and reached for his friend's shoulder.

"Nnnnggh," Rorschach replied through clenched teeth with one of his many non-words.

"I saw that. Damn, man. Ouch." Dan squinted at the very thought of the iron bar smashing into the tender flesh between his partners legs with enough force that the weapon appeared as nothing short of a blur before contact. Dan swallowed hard as he tried to figure how to go about asking Rorschach about the state of his genitals in a way that would not send the smaller vigilante staggering away in horror.

"Rorschach, I'm serious. Is everything, alright…err…down there."

"Is-Is- f-f-f-f-fine," The masked man stammered helplessly, his voice sounding forced and strangled.

Dan couldn't help but smile sympathetically at his partner as he cautiously laid a hand on his bent back and gently rubbed the quivering shoulder blades. Rorschach was so taken by the agony he was in that he offered up nothing in protest.

The red and blue lights of police cars illuminated the dark alley, and Rorschach stiffened immediately.

"N-Need…to…to get..a-aw-away," Rorschach sputtered, still unable to properly form the words.

Trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left, Rorschach stumbled down the dark alley and disappeared around the corner in the direction of the Owlship. Dan followed, still not quite able stifle the grin that played on his lips at the sight of the poor vigilante attempting to escape, all curled in on himself, unable to quite bring his legs together, clumsily limping in the most awkward and indescribable fashion.

When the two of them were finally alone in the ship, Dan turned to his partner who was now leaning against the wall of the ship masked face pressed into his forearm.

"You should, um…check yourself," Dan said carefully, still worried that the injury could be worse than a bad bruise.

"Will. Check. Will check later." Rorschach choked out.

Dan scratched his head. He felt all twisted up inside. He wanted to comfort his partner who was obviously in unspeakable pain, but condolences where difficult enough to administer to Rorschach; let alone condolences for an what was undoubtedly the worst hit to the balls Dan had ever witnessed.

"It might help to scream," Dan offered shyly with a kind smile. "Just let loose. That's what I'd do."

The smaller vigilante paused for a brief moment and gave a weak nod before burying his face into his sleeve and screaming until there was not a trace of air left in his lungs. The hoarse primal roar would have been terrifying if Dan wasn't aware of what it stemmed from, and he was more than a little grateful Rorschach muffled it into his coat.

"Better?" Dan inquired when his partner seemed to have caught his breath.

"Somewhat. Thank you."

"I think we're done for tonight, lets head back to the Nest," said Dan as he took his seat in the pilot's chair.

"Yes. Agreed," muttered Rorschach, who remained standing the entire ride.


	6. November Horizon

Title: November Horizon

Genre: Drama, Romance

Characters, pairings: Dan/Laurie/Walter

Universe and time period: Comic-verse, follow up to Clockwork Eden, Post Karnak AU

Warnings: Slash, and early 'OT3'

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November Horizon

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Walter does not travel well. This much becomes apparent very quickly after he joins up with them in the damp fall of 1986. Laurie is keen to use this as leverage to get Dan to agree on a stopping point and finally end what has been almost a year of scattered motel rooms and seemingly endless highway. They are somewhere in West Virginia, deep in the heart of Appalachia, their brown Chevrolet sedan pulled over along the side of a woodland road. West Virginia is all hills and twisting back country, but in spite of Dan's warnings about this, Walter took to writing in his journal. As expected it is not even an hour before they are pulled over, waiting for him to finish vomiting up what precious little he ate for breakfast.

"He'll never learn." Dan rubs the bridge of his nose. "Stubborn as ever."

Laurie snorts, unable to hold back a rather poor but still amusing imitation of their traveling companion. "Even in the face of terrible motion sickness…never compromise."

Dan chuckles dryly at his wife's sense of humor, he appreciates it more than he can find words for. She laughs in return, but at the sound of some particularly violent retching a couple of feet away, both of their smiles fade.

"Dan," She begins gently.

"I know, Laurie. I know what you're going to say."

"He hates motels, so he hardly sleeps. He eats almost nothing, then gets carsick half the time. Dan, he's only been traveling with us for a month or so and he looks like he's dropped fifteen pounds."

Dan lets out a ragged sigh. "Do you really care, Laurie? Or are you just trying to get to me through him?"

Laurie's brows furrow deep and her fierce eyes flare.

"Look, I'm sorry, that was wrong, I-," Dan starts.

"What? Do you want me to hate him, Dan? Because with the way you constantly imply I do--"

"No! I'm more grateful than you know. It's just hard to believe sometimes, and I know how badly you want to settle somewhere, and I…" Dan pauses. "I still can't believe I have him back, and I still have you, and we're okay…and it's like I'm just waiting to lose it all, and I'm afraid if we stop, somehow I will."

Laurie's expression softens.

"Dan," She says quietly before glancing out the widow to check if Walter is returning. She looks back to her husband when she observes that he is lying on his back in the fallen leaves with an arm over his face, apparently trying to recover before returning to the vehicle.

"I walked across the surface of Mars, and I walked through the streets of New York when I returned. Everything is different now…we have to stick together, it's like we are the only survivors left from the 'old world'."

"So you really think of Walter as… him?'

"Yes, I do. You?" She answers simply. It is not the first time he has asked this question.

"Yeah," Dan replies hoarsely with a nod. "I can wrack my brain over it all day, but when it all comes down to it, it doesn't matter, ya know? He remembers everything, he has all the same hang ups, if he wasn't told how he came to be he'd never think he was anyone other than Rorschach. Its him. That's all there is to it."

There is a rustling sound and Walter returns to the car, mumbling some indiscernible apology as he crawls into the back seat.

"Hey, Buddy, feeling any better?" Dan inquires in a chirpy voice that makes Laurie roll her eyes.

"A little," Walter grumbles as he curls up across the seat, back to them, face buried into the upholstery, thin arms wrapped tightly around his queasy stomach. Dan's worried eyes linger on him for a tense span of seconds before he exhales unevenly and turns to face forward, shifting the vehicle into drive. In his periphery he can see Laurie's taut 'I told you so' expression, but he says nothing as he pulls back onto the road.

***

"God, I'm starving! I'll have a cheeseburger, with the steak fries please, and a Jack and Coke please," Laurie says as she hands her menu over to a fifty-something, no-nonsense looking woman wearing just a touch too much makeup.

"And for you, Sir?" The waitress turns to Dan.

"The barbecued chicken, side of fries, house salad with ranch dressing, and a beer, err, Heineken, please," he replies with a smile and hands over the menu.

"How about you, son?" The waitress peers down at Walter who is still hunched over his menu. He looks up at her, revealing his lined and weathered face with its haggard sunken cheeks and hollow eye sockets. Dan insisted on dying his ginger hair dark brown, still afraid that his prominent features, coupled with that fiery mop, would raise suspicion, even if all three of them had been formally pronounced dead months prior.

"Oh. Excuse me. How about you, Sir," she corrects herself in a flat tone, only marginally phased by her mistake. Laurie bites her lip and just barely holds in her characteristic cackle. Dan elbows her lightly under the table.

"Will have-" Walter's voice comes out scarcely above a whisper. He stops, coughs into his napkin, clears his throat and begins again, his voice clearer but still very quiet. "Two eggs over easy, white toast,…coffee."

"Walter!" Laurie scoffs.

He stares blankly at her across the table.

"You have got to eat more than that! Its dinner time for Christ's sake!" She glares back at him before shifting her gaze to the waitress.

"Steak and eggs. Medium on the steak, and a side of whatever vegetable you're serving, and a coffee," Laurie says quickly, yanking Walter's menu out of his grasp and handing it over to the waitress, who's lip is twisted up in a smirk.

"Sure he's not your son?" She chides, giving Laurie a playful nudge. Dan's face falls into his hands but he is grinning wide. Walter scowls at Laurie.

"You need to eat!" Laurie snaps once the server has left with their orders.

"Not very hungry, still not feeling well. Will never finish what you ordered for me," Walter grumbles.

"You need to try! You're getting so skinny. I'm sure you weigh considerably less than me now!"

Walter says nothing, but his eyes shift to Dan.

"She's right, Buddy. You need to eat," Dan says earnestly, his voice heavy with concern. It feels like something is twisting up in his chest when he looks at Walter, dressed plainly in a green plaid button-up shirt, loose on his ever shrinking frame.

"Why aren't you eating Wa-" Dan bites his lip nervously and corrects himself. They are in a public place after all. "Tom. Why aren't you eating, Or sleeping? Are you unhappy…being with us?" the question seems ridiculous as it falls from his mouth. Rorschach was never really happy, and Walter is technically the same person. There are only varying degrees of discontentment.

"No," Walter replies quickly.

Laurie is restlessly tapping her fork.

"No. Want to stay with you. With you…both. Just don't like this," he continues.

The tapping stops.

"The traveling, you mean?" Dan says slowly.

"Yes. Everywhere is unfamiliar, can't sleep in unfamiliar places. Don't like motels. Filthy. I am tired, don't feel well, confused about what has happened to me…what I am. Apologies, do not mean to be a burden." Walter's voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and heavily laced with an insecurity Dan can only recall hearing a handful of times during their past partnership, but now hears almost everyday.

"You're not! Don't ever think that," Dan replies swiftly.

Laurie reaches across the table and grasps Walter's shoulder. He tenses up, still uncomfortable with a woman's touch. She gives him a stiff shake, forcing him to meet her sharp cobalt blue eyes.

"We are all each other has in this fucked up joke of a world. Do you understand me? For better or worse, we're family now." Her voice is firm and resolute; commanding. She sounds like her father. She sits back and shifts her penetrating gaze to Dan.

"We need to talk about this, Dan."

"Don't call me that here…and we'll talk about it later, Sandra, this isn't the place."

"Sam," she growls.

"Sandra, please--"

"Look at him, Sam! Why are you doing this to us? Why--"

"Enough, Sandra…." Walter interrupts, his raspy voice breaking through the tension. They both stare at him in unison. "Will try. Will try to eat more tonight. Better to talk at motel. Da-Samuel seems uncomfortable here, and Adrian's people could be anywhere." He stops and looks over to Dan. "But Sandra is right. Do need to talk."

Dan's expression breaks into a warm smile. The notion of Walter, the man who could be Rorschach, being the voice of reason is something of a small miracle. He is reminded again how lucky he is to have him back, and to still have his wife.

"Okay, tonight. When we get back to the motel. I promise, we'll talk about this."

"Love you, Honey." Laurie says casually and slips an arm around her husband's waist to give him a squeeze. She does not miss the vague expression that creeps across Walter's hollow features, although it seems to entirely elude Dan. She pulls her arm back and straightens, eyeing Walter across the table curiously.

***

It is nearly ten pm when they arrive back at their motel room. It is a slightly nicer place than some of the others they have stayed at. Dan picked it hoping that Walter would sleep. Walter and Laurie are on the couch, with a chaste space of about ten inches between their bodies. Dan has pulled over a chair and is sitting in front of them.

"So," Dan begins cautiously. "Where should we go from here."

"Wherever it is we need to stay there. At least for a few months. I can't take this, the constant running. It was romantic at first, going from town to town busting a fe-" She stops. Dan's eyes are locked on her. This was not something they discussed since Walter had joined them.

"Busting what, Laurel?" Walter interjects coolly, his voice almost sly.

Dan sighs miserably. This was not where the conversation was intended to go.

"Crimes, Walter. Laurie and I, before we err….found you on the side of the road…would sometimes, when we were in bigger cities, go out at night and you know…play the old game." Dan answers honestly, seeing no sense in hiding it now, but he's all nerves. He is sure vigilantism is the last thing that would be good for Walter at the moment, and he's terrified of awakening the old Rorschach; one who would almost certainly leave.

Laurie's posture is tense too, nervous that she has taken the entire conversation off track, perhaps ruining her chances of getting Dan to agree on stopping point this night.

"I get it…" Walter nods, his icy gaze shifting between them both. "You don't want to bring back Rorschach…understandable."

"Wal-," Dan begins.

"Do not worry Daniel. Rorschach died. Journal was published. Truth made available for those who will listen. Justice served. For the moment, I would prefer to leave Rorschach with his honorable death. Deserves as much. Deserves better than what I am now."

Laurie exhales slowly, and focuses on her husband's stricken face. "See Dan, its alright. Now, where do we want to live?"

"No, Laurie. Don't you get it? He says 'for the moment'. Once we stay somewhere long enough, he'll turn back into Rorschach and run off to purge world of evil. You won't like him being his vicious old self again and will go off on your own. You're smart, I'm sure you'll find a job and meet people in no time and won't need me any more. Or who knows, maybe Adrian will just figure out where we are and have us assassinat--"

"DAN!" Laurie snaps, rising quickly to her feet. "Get a hold of yourself! I'm sick of your bullshit! Of your goddamned paranoia! I'm sick of you doubting us!"

"I'm sorry, Laurie" Dan says softly, looking wounded.

"We're sticking together, the three of us. Even if bad things happen, it can't be any worse that what already has!" She exclaims, her voice strong but beginning to crack.

"It could get worse. It always can," Dan whispers, unable to meet her eyes.

"How?! We were one inch from fucking Armageddon!"

"I could lose you both…lose him a second time. I can't,…I can't take that. We're safe like this."

"Safe?!" She shrieks, her slim yet muscular body all tension and fury. "Walter is going to fucking waste away to a skeleton, and I am going to end up as mad as he is! If you are afraid of losing us, you could have fooled me!"

"Please, Laurie. Just try to understand where I'm coming from. I only want to hold us together, keep us protected--" Dan pleads hopelessly but Laurie cuts him off.

"Dan, we love you. Don't you get it?! We love you!!" Laurie shouts, her eyes filled with tears. Furiously, she rubs them with the back of her hand. "I need a cigarette," She mutters venomously and storms out of the motel room.

Dan watches her go, his lips move to call out to her, but his dry throat refuses to vocalize. Her final statement seems to hang in the air after the door slams, and Dan turns to face Walter. The smaller man has gone from pale to ashy white, and his posture is rigid as a board. The two men's gazes lock for a moment until Walter tears his eyes away.

"Should follow her, Daniel." Walter whispers. "Think that is what she wants. Behavior is meant as reverse psychology."

Dan's stricken expression melts at this. Walter's blunt analysis of the situation reminds him of the manner in which his partner would draw a conclusion from a crime scene. He reaches out and cups Walter's bony shoulder, smiling earnestly.

"I'll be right back. Sit tight."

Walter says nothing, but nods slightly, his sullen features offering only the scarcest reply.

***

As expected Laurie is in the parking lot, her tan trench coat wrapped tightly around herself, leaning against their car as she takes a long drag off her cigarette. It saddens Dan to see her smoking. He knows she wants to quit and the stress he's putting her through is of little help in the endeavor.

"Laurie," Dan begins carefully as he approaches her. He pauses a few feet away when she does not respond and scratches his short beard, as is his habit when he is nervous. He still is not used to having it.

"I'm sorry for upsetting you," he tries again.

Another long exhale of pale wispy smoke into the frigid autumn air is all he gets in reply.

"I'm sorry for not having faith in you." He whispers and steps a little closer.

"That's better," Laurie answers coolly and finally turns to face her husband.

Sensing he has received permission, Dan practically lunges forward to embrace her, causing her to drop her cigarette. She kisses him gently on the mouth and allows him to hold her there for a while; her way of accepting his apology, before she pulls back and looks him sternly in the eye.

"Dan. We need to talk."

"I know, Love, I know," Dan replies softly.

"Not just about where we are going…but…about Walter."

Dan feels as though his heart has dropped into his belly. Even in the wake of her vehement statement that the three of them must remain united, he still cannot quell the constant fear that at any moment she might make him choose between the two of them.

"What,- what about him?" he stammers.

"Dan," Laurie says his name with the utmost gentleness. "I meant what I said in there. _We_ love you."

Dan's jaw drops slightly as he begins to unravel the implications of her statement.

"He loves you, Dan. Like I love you. I think he has for a very long time, but now that he's not using Rorschach as a distraction it's harder for him not to be consumed by it. You can't tell me you never noticed." She tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

Years of denial crumble away under her sharp penetrating stare, and so many things that were muddled up in recesses of his mind for decades are in that moment perfectly transparent.

"How did you figure it out?" is all he can manage to say amid the sudden wave of turbulent emotions.

"Dan, I'm a woman, we like have some sort of radar for when other people are looking at our mates that way," Laurie laughs genuinely and lights another cigarette.

Dan chuckles in return, but it is nervous and fades quickly. "What does this mean?," He asks slowly.

"He won't take being the third wheel forever, Dan. I think if we want him to stay with us, eventually our relationship with Walter is going to have to change." Laurie replies as she taps the ashes from her cigarette.

"Laurie," Dan gapes. "Are you suggesting we…become a…threesome? You would do that? You would love him?"

"HA! Dan, my last relationship was with an all-powerful glowing blue demigod that could offer me a threesome with himself. Honey, this is nothing," she cackles sarcastically, and takes a hit off her cigarette before pausing to meet his astonished gaze: "I don't know. I don't mean lets do this tomorrow or anything. I'm not ready and neither is he, but eventually, if it feels right, I think I can." She pauses to look at the little glassy watch on her left wrist. "I just want us to be okay, Dan. I want to believe that Jon sent him to us for a reason."

Her eyes shift from the watch to her wedding band, which she idly spins with her thumb.

"Just us three though. I'm still your wife. I don't want us to turn into swingers," She says with a playful laugh, briefly trying to lighten the mood before her tone grows serious again. "We just need to wait an see how things play out, right now finding a home for us is what's most important, and," She pauses. " I'm just tossing out ideas anyway. Maybe whether or not _I _can do this isn't even the question. I mean, you've never been with another man have you?"

***  
Snow crunches under Walter's boots and his breath exits his white, chapped lips in wispy puffs. It is mid-afternoon in late November and the sun is already low on the horizon, turning the ashy sky ruddy pink. It has been two weeks since they came to this isolated rural place somewhere in the northeastern United States. Dan says that they are only a two hour drive away from New York City, but Walter finds this hard to believe.

It is the first day Walter is well enough to go outside since they moved into the hundred year old farmhouse. His inability to sleep in motels, coupled with inadequate diet, finally broke his immune system and he fell victim to a severe flu. He knows his poor health factored into Dan's quick decision to buy the remote property, and he feels some level of guilt for his weakness. He can remember almost nothing of the day they moved in, only his body on fire with fever, Dan's arms around his torso lifting him out of the back seat of the car, and Laurie saying to him in a sweet gentle voice that does not sound right coming from her: "It's okay, Honey. We're home now."

Walter shivers in his trench coat as he wanders aimlessly across the rolling expanse of the property. He has lost every meager trace of insulation his body once possessed, and in spite of having little concern for his looks he is disgusted by his condition. 'Thin' does not even begin to describe the skeletal appearance he has taken on.

The terrain is baffling to him. On one hand massive and mysterious, on the other void and empty. Most of the property is weedy untended farmland, with the exception of some woods on the north side. Dan informed him with boyish enthusiasm over breakfast that these woods run into a state park eventually, and that there are trails there that they can explore when he is well. He reaches the line of trees on the north side and peers into the spreading darkness of the forest. The late autumn sun is nearly gone, and it is very cold. There is a sane and logical part of his mind that tells him not to go any further, that it is late he will only get lost. But then there is also the part of his mind that his governed his actions for the last decade, the part that has a unexplainable need to wander the dark spaces of the world.

Walter takes one crunching step forward, breaching the line of stark trees which are dotted sparsely with the very last of the autumn leaves. It is eerily quiet under the canopy of spiky branches, the silence only broken by an occasional bird call, or rustle of foliage beneath the tiny feet of a squirrel or chipmunk. Walter is reminded of the deepest parts of central park. It is the only place he can equate to such alien terrain, but even there you could always easily find the glittering spires of skyscrapers beyond the branches.

Ahead there is a massive tree, toppled over onto its side. Walter stares at it for a while wondering why it fell over. He knows nothing of forests, or what would make a tree fall.

"Dead now," he mutters and sits down on the log, all at once aware of his own exhaustion.

His can feel his jaw vibrating, making his teeth chatter, and it annoys him. His barren blue-gray eyes focus on what he can still see of the sun, a fiery blaze glittering through the black silhouetted trees. It will be dark very soon. _Should find my way home, could freeze to death out here,_ he thinks to himself, but still does not move from where he is seated on the fallen tree, only closes his eyes and exhales slowly, his breath crystallizing in the air around him. He remains there, beneath the spidery tree branches as the sky gradually dims, and all begins to slip into frozen stillness.

There is a crunching sound coming through the trees behind him.

"WALTER!" Dan's voice shatters the frigid silence, but Walter does not answer.

"WALTER!" Dan yells out again, His clumsy footfalls growing louder.

Walter hears him pause and curse to himself before calling out a little softer than before. "Rorschach! Where the hell are you?! I know you came in here, I saw your tracks!"

"Walter is fine, Daniel," Walter replies quietly and looks over his shoulder to see his partner a mere ten feet behind him, his cheeks flushed with panic.

Dan gasps and rushes over to where Walter sits on the fallen log. "Damn it, you blend right in with that brown coat."

"Apologies."

"What are you doing all the way out here, Laurie and I have dinner ready back at the house. I thought you were just going to take a little walk around the yard. It getting dark out here, and it freezing." Dan plops down beside him. "C'mon, Buddy, we need to get you back inside. You'll freeze to death out here."

"Hurm… am I not already there, Daniel?" Walter rasps coolly.

"N-no, but you will be if we don't get you inside where its warm," Dan stammers.

"Died, Daniel. Died last year. This…thing…sitting here with you. Do you honestly believe-"

"Of course! It doesn't make a difference, Man. You remember everything,…you're Rorschach, you're,…Walter. You're my best friend. Its all the same," Dan cuts him off with hurried but sincere words.

Walter is silent for what feels like a very long time before turning his tired eyes to his friend. "Daniel,…I am not certain I belong here with you and Laurel, with…living things. Think, perhaps, Osterman made a mistake."

Dan can hear his wife's words from a month prior echoing in his head, and he leans forward to cup his partner's rough unshaven cheek, running a thumb gently across the hard bone around the hollow eye socket. Walter's muscles tighten on contact, his posture suddenly rigid.

"You belong with us, Walter. You belong with us because…we love you." He moves forward, and he can feel Walter's quick nervous breath puffing against his face, and a swift surge of heat to the cold cheek under his palm. "I love you, Walter." He whispers reverently just before he presses his lips those of another man for the first time in his life. And Walter is all nerves, closed-mouth and unyielding, but he does not jerk away, only closes his weary eyes and shivers there as Dan embraces him beneath the soaring branches; silhouetted like spilt ink on the milky canvas of a fading November sky.


End file.
